Monday, April 5

This post was meant to go out on March 30th, but one thing or another has led to this delay. {Were I a writer, I would call it writer’s block, but since I am not a writer, I don’t know what to call it}.

March 30th marks the birthday of two of history’s most important painters, Vincent Van Gogh, the Dutch impressionist master whose very name and semblance have become icons of the suffering tormented artist, and Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes, the painter of Spanish royals, implacable firing squads, nude and clothed majas and personal demons. Several blog friends have posted on Van Gogh (kimy at mouse medicine and the ever Clever Pup), so here I will include images of some of the better known paintings of the less celebrated Goya. All of the Goya paintings below are part of the permanent collection of the Prado Museum in Madrid.

Followed by a poem.

The Third of May 1808 (1814)

The Clothed Maja (La maja vestida), ca. 1803

The Nude Maja (La maja desnuda), ca. 1799

Saturn Devouring His Son (1819)

Love woundsWhen my big-eyed small-town girlregards her nude bodyin our bedroom mirrorthere is a sag and wincein her eyes as they catchon the long overlapping scarsleft by two caesarian sections —footprints of our daughters’ first steps

Her gaze re-plows the furrowedslit of pink puckered skin and fleshmocked in her morningsby Frankenstein staple smilethe wave where the storm snappedthe oar and ripped the folded sailwhen the midwife became surgeonthe stork brought a scalpel to the nestand the well rehearsed breathingof birthing pangs and pains succumbedunder sugared swirls of anesthetizing ether

Had I such mystical powersI would gladly kiss away those scarsfrom the mirrors of her self-regardbut I don’t know if I could everbring myself to make them vanishfrom the delicious curve of her soft belly

I would not erase the Rembrandtcraquelure from her Rubens tummythe mauve ridge I anointwith the unguent nectar of my narcissus nor could I release the lightning boltcaptured in amberthe morning the world was createdand the first cradle first rocked

But there are other woundsthat cannot be tickled with my noseor cupped in trembling handswounds that leave no scarsbecause they never closenever healnever

Inside those grimaced eyesthere is the throb of such woundsthat my blind archers have caused herfountains where the morning doe oncedrank pine-scented waters in the hidden clearingbefore being felled by wayward arrowsgashes that will only be closedby the final open woundthat devours us allthe day freed lightningburns down the cathedral forest

Forgive the fevered ghosts that wander hereforgive me if I choke on bloodied wordsand if those that struggle outbring the pain of kindest cutsbut love is not an anestheticlove is a hallucinogenicrazor lozengeforever humming in the throat

March 30th is also my wedding anniversary. Twenty years after María and I got married our love has brought forth and raised two daughters and borne loving witness to their coming onto the threshold of adulthood. In the nearly quarter century that has passed since we decided to braid our destinies together, we have seen blissful days and days of pain and confusion, memorable inner and outer sojourns and exasperating crises, clouds of butterflies and swarms of hornets. Above all else, the many steps of this journey have nurtured deep and abiding friendship and love. Our love, like life itself, is not perfect — it is achingly real and far more beautiful than all of that.

Feliz aniversario nena.

Debt acknowledgement: the following poetic snippets have danced in my mind while doing this post ...

Advice by and from Langston Hughes
"Folks, I'm telling you,
birthing is hard
and dying is mean—
so get yourself
a little loving
in between."

“let our scars fall in love” — Galway Kinnell

"When a man wishes a woman he will blow a horn.
When a woman wishes a man she eats the cotton of her pillow"
—Nizar Qabbani

Blog friend Brian of Waystation One will recognize these thoughts from a comment I left on his “Kiss off wedding crasher” post, from which I have outright swiped gratefully borrowed the “pink puckered flesh” image. You have my apologies and thanks, Brian.

This is a serious love poem, beautifully laid out and heavy with imagery that take us through centuries of great poetry. Thank you for sharing these words. Thank you for connecting the other pieces that inspired this.Thank you for your honest thoughts.

LorenzoBeautiful -- and I have to admit made me cry -- a break the heart open kind of poem... Oh to have the gift to begin at the end, and make the way back to the beginning - where the endless dance began - the quiet song that lovers do... to have the ability to see in your lovers eyes that there is no loss only difficult gifts. To honor your love and confront yourself and deal honestly with the issues of the heart is always frightening and at the same time to take her hand and climb to the stars.Happy Anniversary-- may you both be blessed forever and a day,Joanny

I love this post and the poem, as a wife of 20 years and mother of two sons and deep admirer of both the artwork and suffering of van Gogh and Goya. And, strangeley enough, March 30th is the birthday of my childhood hero, an amazing racehorse named Secretariat. Thanks, Lorenzo. Your post reminded me.

Terresa, thanks for the anniversary wishes. I am glad you liked the poem enough to re-read. I got badly stuck on this and couldn't quite get it to where I was satisfied with the result, and eventually posted it almost a week late. Oh well, María is used to my self-absorbed procrastination.

Thanks, Joanny for the anniversary blessings. You always make take the time and effort to leave v ery thoughtful and supportive comments. Really appreciate it. And, yes, I will answer you recent email one of these days...

Happiest of anniversaries to you and your wife, Lorenzo. I wrote a comment earlier but can't think of words to convey how beautiful your post is. The poem is amazing, and believe me, you are a writer! What a wonderful post, as always.

willow: I did want to get part of the 'raw' side of love in here, although I did find it quite hard to 'talk' about the pains and wounds that accompany even the best of relationships. It's easier just to be silent on that part of marriage and love, but then how believable is the bliss if we pretend there is nothing else?

First thoughts: The tenderness and love, the quiet pain and joy - this is what a life together is - and mostly in a strange together-apartness that can't quite ever be ferried across utterly. The separateness is in some ways insurmountable. Which leaves the longing, and that is the most delicious part.

An honor to read it.

(Working through your posts, slowly. Had begun with lipstick, so I'm working back - a little shamefully between student emails and appointments . . . )